


Andraste

by wargoddess



Series: The Templar Canticles [16]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Implied/Referenced Terrorism, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-10
Updated: 2014-11-10
Packaged: 2018-02-24 22:03:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2598044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wargoddess/pseuds/wargoddess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Years into the Mage-Templar War, the most radical faction of mages sends an olive branch... or is it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Andraste

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cypheroftyr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cypheroftyr/gifts).



> For a prompt on Tumblr from cypheroftyr: Carver/Cullen, understanding.

     The first two missives that Cullen received, he tossed into the fire. After each, Carver found him in his practice chamber or the sparring yard, silently destroying a target dummy with his blades. Carver didn't ask, didn't interfere, just kept watch while he did it -- and then once Cullen was exhausted enough, and once his arms had reached _incessant scream_ levels of pain, Carver threw a cooldown blanket over his shoulders and guided him home to a hot bath and a gentle rubdown until he slept.

     The third missive came by messenger rather than post. They sent for Cullen around noon, and he read the tension in his Templars' postures even before he went into his office. First Enchanter Apphia had decided to put in an appearance, and Carver was there too, standing in his customary position behind Cullen's chair; the look on his face was all Berserker flatness, a warning. The boy who stood in the middle of the room, chin high and jaw tight with determination, was also pale with fear, so much that he smelled of it. He also wore the most ridiculous, ostentatious mage robes Cullen had ever seen, while carrying a staff two feet taller than himself that was probably too heavy for him to wield effectively. Fool. But foolish mages were more dangerous than most, and this one looked barely old enough to have been Harrowed, so Cullen kept himself ready as he nodded to Carver and moved to stand behind his desk. "Knight Captain?"

     "Ser," Carver said, snapping into attention-stance. "This apostate has requested to speak with you." Per the Declaration, they no longer used _apostate_ to refer merely to Circle-unaffiliated mages; if Carver was using it now, it meant a mage who had not yet proven himself safe for public interaction. A brave boy, then, if he'd chosen to come through the Gallows gates. There was no guarantee Cullen would let him back out again -- especially if the boy had come to say what Cullen suspected he had.

     He would keep calm, he told himself.

     "I am Cullen, Knight Commander for the Kirkwall Circle," he said, quietly. "Have you come to present yourself for Harrowing, or education?"

     The boy, amazingly, lifted his chin even higher. He was the florid type, every emotion writ large in blotchy cheeks and tight lips. "I do not recognize your oppressive authority, Templar," he said, his voice cracking. "I come from the sovereign nation of the Black Feather Mages, to deliver a message." With a shaking hand, he held forth a wax-sealed scroll.

     Cullen looked at it without reaching for it. "Would that be in Tevinter, then? That would be the only sovereign nation of mages I have ever heard of." With the most delicate of emphases, he added, " _Mage_."

     The boy flushed redder and shifted from foot to foot. "The others said it was a lie, that you respect mages. Now you're proving it."

     "I repay respect in kind," Cullen said, still softly. "You have not given your name or rank, and you seem uninterested in using mine. If I am 'Templar,' then it is only fitting that you be 'Mage.' Is it not?"

     The boy blinked, and his chin came down a little. "I, I suppose that's fair." He swallowed, then visibly steeled himself. "My name is Arlton. I... don't have a rank. I am told to give this to you... Knight Commander Cullen." He stepped forward, still holding out the scroll --

     And an instant later Carver's sword was unhitched and the tip hovered before the boy's throat. He gasped and flinched back; Carver did not move, his gaze vicious. "No closer," Carver said.

     Silence fell in the room, but for the boy's quick, noisy breaths. Cullen watched the boy closely, but there was no flare of magic on his part; nor did he reach for the staff on his back. Tolerable self-control, then. After a moment Cullen nodded minutely, and Carver flicked his sword up and back into place on his back. Another jerk of Cullen's head and a young junior knight stepped away from guard-position to take the scroll. The boy, however, twitched and jerked the scroll back. "I was told to give it only to your hand, serrah!"

     "Please understand," Cullen said. The level of tension in the room was too high. Most of that was coming from Carver, but much of it was just the situation. "You are, if I do not miss my guess, the representative of a known violent group -- one which has killed innocents before. And, if I may add, one which killed my own messengers, the last time I attempted to open talks. Feathers are also known to use blood magic. So nothing from your hand will touch my hand until it has been examined by our First Enchanter, and deemed safe."

     The boy stared at him, but then finally slumped a little, opening his hand. The junior knight took the scroll, and at Carver's gesture brought it to Apphia. Apphia inclined her head to Cullen, levitating it away from the junior knight without touching it. Her eyes unfocused for a moment, and the perusal seemed to go on for longer than it should.

     "Well?" Carver snapped. Cullen glanced at him; Carver's jaw was tight, his nostrils flared.

     "I am no expert in blood magic," she said, watching the scroll spin, "but I have seen enough examples to know to be very, very thorough before I pronounce something safe, Knight Captain." Carver made a frustrated sound, but subsided. A moment later, Apphia nodded and sent the scroll floating through the air over to Cullen. "I detect no signs of magic at all, let alone blood magic."

     Cullen inclined his head to her again in thanks, and finally took the scroll. Setting it unopened on his desk, he regarded Arlton again -- and noticed, belatedly, how skinny the boy was. The hideous robes nearly disguised it, but he'd had a growth spurt recently, and plainly hadn't gotten enough to eat during that time. His hair was windblown but beyond that, unkempt; someone had hacked it short with a knife. And who had given him that useless, heavy staff?

     "Have you eaten?" he asked. Beside him, Carver jerked in surprise.

     Arlton blinked. "What?"

     "Eaten. Food. Within the past day."

     The boy frowned as if this was a trick question. "No?"

     Cullen nodded, then glanced at Apphia. "First Enchanter, would you be so kind as to guide our guest to the dining hall so that he may refresh himself? I believe he would be more comfortable in the company of other mages." Apphia lifted an eyebrow, but inclined her head. When she came forward, however, the boy tensed.

     "Aren't you going to read the scroll?" he asked.

     "In a moment, yes. And I will give you a reply to take back, never fear, but this will take time. In the meantime, you might as well stay -- "

     The boy's face was suddenly stark with fear, his eyes wide, and now Cullen felt the flicker of his magic, gathering. Not much of it, though, and nothing that would be a challenge for even the most junior Templar to put down. "I won't be caged like your, your _tame_ mages!" he said, throwing a frightened look at Apphia. "I'd rather die!"

     "That's do-able," Carver said, suddenly looking even larger and more menacing than he usually did, "if you don't settle the fuck down."

     Maker. Cullen glanced at Carver again, which was enough; Carver's jaw tightened, but he shifted back a little and then visibly made himself relax. Before the boy could panic, Cullen said, "I did say _guest_ , Serrah Arlton. For the moment we shall assume that you have been Harrowed at some point -- which means that by the tenets of the Declaration, you are free to come and go as you please. Provided you do nothing to belie our assumption as to the level of threat you present, that will continue to be the case."

     " _My_ threat?" Arlton looked at Carver, who folded his arms. Arlton's gaze then darted around the room and settled on Apphia, who had folded her arms as well. Her magic had gathered, too, which was a more obvious thing; she glowed softly with it, plainly ready to defend herself and others. That her powers far dwarfed the boy's were equally obvious -- but perhaps it was the fact that she felt the need at all which warned the boy of the problem. "Oh. Um. Sorry." He took a deep breath, and the growing sense of his magic immediately faded.

     "Apology accepted," Apphia said, archly. Her own magical aura flickered into quiescence. "Now if you'll come with me, Serrah Arlton? We _tame_ mages at least eat well, thanks to the Knight Commander's efforts."

     Arlton grimaced, but then turned and went with her meekly. His staff scraped the ground now and again when he walked, kicking up the odd magical spark; Cullen noticed that the back hem of the boy's ugly robes was singed where this had been going on for some time.

     With him gone, the room's atmosphere eased palpably. Cullen waved the other Templars out, though he kept Carver there with a glance, and after a moment they were alone in the room. Carver exhaled and moved around to the desk face Cullen, his hard gaze riveted on the scroll as if it was a snake. "Want me to burn that for you?"

     "No," Cullen said, heavily. "I will read it, this time. And I will reply. If things have progressed to this point, I have little choice."

     "This point?"

     "Yes." Cullen sat down with a heavy sigh and propped his elbows on his desk, resting his chin on his folded hands. "The point at which a group of maleficarum sends a defenseless child into the hands of their enemies, hoping that we will strengthen them by his martyrdom." Silence. He looked up to see Carver staring at him, eyes wide with shock. Yes, Cullen had rather thought so. "You did not realize?"

     "No. I just saw -- " Carver shook his head, looked away in shame.

     "Just another blood mage." Cullen smiled thinly. "Just another potential assassin. Just another terrorist."

     Carver flinched. After a moment he moved away; when they were alone together, he did not always maintain protocol. At the window, he said, softly, "The Void is wrong with me? Only a few years since I lived with Garrett, and Father, and Bethany. That little pissant might have balls the size of grapeshot, but aside from that he's just some stupid, half-trained nothing who someone fired up and dressed up like a doll and sent at us." He shook his head, his expression anguished. "What's bloody _changed_ , Cull, that I look at a mage now and see nothing but a threat?"

     Cullen sat back, gazing at his folded hands. The damage was not as visible, these days. He had worked enough that the fingers were mostly straight, though weak. Templars had been the ones to inflict the injury, but the sentiment that had caused them to do it? The cruelty, that willingness to kill one's ideological opponents? The Inquisition and the Feathers were no different from one another, in that. And Cullen knew, too well, just how easily a single instance of horror could make all threats blur together into a single mass of _enemy_.

     "Used to wonder how you hated mages so," Carver said, softly. Perhaps he had guessed Cullen's thoughts; they'd been together long enough, knew each other deeply enough, that it was sometimes easy for them both to do. "Used to wonder why you couldn't just _see_ that they were people like any other."

     He sounded so troubled that Cullen shook his head and got to his feet, going over to stand behind him. "You are not so stubborn as I, my knight. You listen, when others say you're wrong."

     "You shouldn't've had to. Not about mages. Not to _me_." He shuddered, his shoulders hunching. "Maker's sake, am I any different from Alrik? I was all ready to Smite that little shit just for looking at you crosswise."

     "Smiting isn't branding." Or raping, or murdering.

     "Yeah, but it's not far off. Smiting a mage for no reason, beating a mage, shoving 'em into a dark hole and forgetting them for six months or a year... do one and the rest is easier." Shaking his head, Carver turned back to Cullen, his expression tight and angry -- and afraid, Cullen noticed. Afraid of himself, suddenly. "You -- " He stopped abruptly, clamping his teeth shut.

     Cullen sighed and stepped closer, taking one of Carver's hands. "I? Speak your mind, my knight. There are no secrets between us."

     Carver looked away for a moment. "You never did any of that, did you? I mean... I know you looked the other way." All of them had done that, in Meredith's day. Cullen had done it more than most, though, as her Knight Captain. "But the beating and the, the _cruelty_ \-- "

     "Evil is in all of us," Cullen said, softly. "Even me."

     Carver inhaled, horrified. "No, Cull."

     "It is why I was sent to Kirkwall." Cullen smiled thinly. They'd never talked about this often. Carver knew what it cost him to remember this time of his life. But Carver needed to understand. "Not long after... the incident at Kinloch, I was injured during sparring. A spirit mage came to heal me. I was confused, disoriented. I Smote him." One must confess sins to be absolved of them. Cullen took a deep breath. "I Smote him _five times_ , to be specific. He was unconscious by the third and I Smote him again. I would have _kept_ doing it if Greagoir hadn't been there to stop me. I would have beaten him if I'd been on my feet, might have slain him if I'd had my sword. I _enjoyed_ having that mage laid out before me, helpless, as I had been before Uldred." He shook his head. "But that is why Greagoir sent me here, Carver. I don't think he knew quite how bad Kirkwall was, but even then, he would have heard things. Here, he knew, I would either see horrors and be appalled back into righteousness by them... or, if I kept going down the path of cruelty, at least here I would... fit in."

     Carver stared at him. "That's a big-arse risk to have taken with one of his best men."

     "Perhaps." Cullen tried to smile, and failed. "I like to think he saw some innate goodness in my damaged soul, and suspected Kirkwall would be the making of me. As it has been. I have never asked him what he was thinking, to send me here. Perhaps I should write him."

     Carver's hand twitched in Cullen's. "No. That's the sodding past. I shouldn't have even brought it up." He took a deep breath, relaxed visibly, and let it out. "I just... I don't know. Thank you for, ah, telling me about that."

     Cullen forced himself to smile, and squeezed his hand. "Be wiser and quicker about returning to yourself than I was, my knight. For both our sakes." Then, with a heavy sigh, he let go Carver's hand and turned to face the scroll on his desk. But to his surprise, Carver grabbed his hand again, tightly. When Cullen blinked at him, Carver nodded once, jaw set.

     "Mages are people, sure, but this lot are wankers," he said. "Let's both figure out a way to tell them to go fuck themselves -- a way that hopefully won't get that stupid brat killed."

#

     It was noon the next day before Cullen had his reply composed and ready to seal. He summoned the boy Arlton, who had spent the night in one of the junior Enchanters' chambers, shared with a couple of the younger mages just past Harrowing. Per Apphia's report, the young mages had been instructed to be completely honest with the boy, but also to keep a close eye on him -- and, of course, Carver had made certain all entrances to and exits from the chamber had been guarded by experienced Templars. The boy had not tried to leave or make mischief, however, and one of the guards reported that he'd been up most of the night, talking quietly with the others. Apphia had told Cullen that most of what Arlton wanted to know was whether various frightening rumors about the Circle were true. None of them were.

     He still wore the hideous robes the Feathers had given him, Cullen saw, but he'd bathed and someone had administered him a proper haircut, and he'd left off the ridiculous hat this time. He'd slept well despite the late night, plainly, and already three square meals had had a positive effect on his appearance: he was not as pale, and not as visibly frightened as he stood before Cullen's desk.

     "Your superiors have asked for the impossible," Cullen said to him, nodding toward the opened Feathers' scroll. "The shuttering of the Gallows' doors, all mages tossed out onto the streets whether they wish to be or not, and the abolishment of the Templar Order throughout Thedas, as if I had the power to enact such a thing. Did you know that?"

     The boy frowned at the scroll. "They told me they were asking for a release of mage prisoners."

     "There are only three lyrium-smuggling and mage-abusing Templars in our dungeon at present, Serrah Arlton. Shall I set them free for you?"

     The boy shook his head, slowly, his expression darkening. He really wasn't stupid, Cullen decided, seeing the realization come over him. Just young, and idealistic, and easily led. With time, assuming he was allowed that much, he would grow out of it.

     Well. "My reply is as follows," Cullen said, opening the response he'd written. "'To the leadership of the Black Feathers: despite your messenger's passion on your behalf, your demands show a lack of good faith, and I cannot meet them -- as you must surely know. Should you ever _sincerely_ wish to see a world in which mages and the un-magicked are equals, I am at your disposal to discuss the matter further. Until then, serrahs, I bid you a good day.'" He looked up at Arlton. "I would like your opinion on the line, _despite your messenger's passion on your behalf_."

     Arlton's frown deepened. "What?"

     "You realize they sent you here to die?" The boy flinched. Cullen kept his expression still. "Yet you will be returning alive, and that is bound to cause... suspicion. I want to know if that line of the message will strengthen your position among the Feathers, or weaken it."

     After a long silence, in which Cullen watched the slow death of once-grandiose dreams play across the boy's face, he said, quietly, "I believe it will help me, ser. In their -- " He faltered, looked stunned, then sobered. "In _our_ eyes."

     "Very well, then." Cullen rolled the message tightly, dripped wax onto the seam, then used his personal seal to set the wax. He held it forth. Moving with uncharacteristic slowness, his eyes still troubled, Arlton came forward to take it.

     "I'm free to leave, then?"

     Cullen inclined his head. "Of course. Walk in the Maker's light."

     Arlton lifted his chin again -- but after a moment, he hesitated, and then bowed back to Cullen, carefully and slowly. He glanced over at Apphia and did the same thing; Apphia smiled and nodded back, though there was a hint of sadness in her expression. When the boy turned to leave, though, Carver stepped forward and blurted, "Hey."

     The boy jumped and turned back to him, warily. Cullen groaned inwardly. They'd _talked_ about this. None of them wanted to send Arlton back to the people who'd exploited him. But even to offer the Circle's hospitality to the boy could backfire badly; the Feathers had almost completely poisoned him against the very idea. If Arlton was ever to join them, it would have to be by his own will, and based on the evidence of his own eyes.

     And indeed, Carver glanced at Cullen once, wavering visibly, before he finally said to Arlton, "That staff is shit. None of the mages in my family would ever be caught dead with anything like it. You." He pointed at one of the junior knights, who jumped; Carver tugged loose his keys and tossed them at the woman, who scrambled to catch them. "Take him past the Knight Commander's quarters on the way out. In the bedroom armoire, in the back behind the fancy clothes, there's a staff. Give him that."

     Cullen stared at Carver's back. He knew that staff.

     Arlton stiffened. "This staff is fine."

     "Don't be sodding stupid, you'll just brain yourself with that thing if you ever try to use it in combat." Carver lifted his own chin. "The staff I'm giving you is called 'Birchcore'. Toss it if you don't want it, or sell it; it's nothing to me. I just can't stand looking anymore at that ugly piece of shit you're carrying now."

     With that, he stalked back to his place at Cullen's side, and folded his arms. Arlton glared back at him, then followed the junior knight out without another word.

     Much later that evening, after the audience had been dismissed and Apphia had left with a parting _I hope you know what you're doing, Knight Commander_ , and after the junior knight had reported the boy's awe upon being given Birchcore, Cullen lay facing Carver in their bed. Carver had been quiet for an hour, obviously deep in thought, and Cullen had simply caressed him now and again to help him relax. Eventually Carver said, "What are the odds they'll kill him soon as he's back, and say we did it?"

     Yes. Cullen had rather thought that would be on his mind. "Perhaps fifty-fifty. If he's wise, he'll let the sentries and such see him, and take the long way through whatever encampment they have before reporting directly to his superiors."

     "Think he's that smart?"

     "I believe so, yes." Cullen hoped so, anyway. But there was no peace to be had along this line of thought, so he changed the subject. "Your sister's staff."

     Carver shrugged a little. "Not like _I_ could use the bloody thing."

     "Which naturally would be why you kept it all these years." Carver made a grumbling sound. Cullen smiled and stroked a hand over the hard curves of Carver's arm to soothe away the tease.

     Carver sighed, looking away. "It's a good staff for a baby mage. Channels mana smooth as butter, Bethy told me once. And there's real gold in the handgrips. Even if he just sells it, he'll at least have enough money to eat for awhile." He fell silent for a moment. "Maybe make his way back here, when he wakes up to what the Feathers really are."

     "We can but hope."

     "Right. 'Cause it's not the mistake that makes you."

     "Pardon?"

     Carver's eyes flicked up to search Cullen's. "The mistake. Everybody can go bad for a bit, right? That's what you said. Everybody's got evil in them, whether they ever let it out or not. Whether they get worse, or not. But it matters if you _stop_. If you just, one day... decide to be better." As Cullen blinked at this, Carver shrugged again. "You did it, so anybody can."

     Maker. Beautiful, wondrous man. Cullen swallowed. "With sufficient reason, yes." _And you are mine._ It was amazing; somewhere along the line, Carver had replaced even Andraste in Cullen's motivations. He had become the man he was, survived horrors, and would change all Thedas if he could, for Carver. He never feared lapsing back into the half-mad, hate-filled creature he had been, because of Carver.

     Oblivious, Carver sighed and shifted onto his back, relaxing. "Well, then. If being treated like a sodding human being isn't reason enough to make a Feather defect, I don't know what is. Hope he singes the pubes off whoever made him wear that outfit, though, at least. Sodding crime against nature, it was."

     Cullen smiled. "I love you more than life."

     Carver blinked in surprise at him. "For talking smack about that idiot's clothes?"

     "For no particular reason." Cullen nestled himself into the curve of Carver's arm. "Go to sleep, my love."

#

     The war did not end for some while. There was never any part of it that might be called victory, for either side; just a series of horrors gradually de-escalating, until everyone was too weary of death to continue.

     Somewhere before the end of it, but after more assassination attempts and more alliances, after a few more of Thedas' Circles had adopted the Declaration, after Cullen's arms had begun to ache before every winter storm and after a touch of gray had appeared at Carver's temples ("I'm fucking _distinguished_ now," he'd said proudly, much to Cullen's amusement)... a young mage presented himself at the Gallows gates. He was the florid kind, pink-cheeked in the late-autumn cold, and lanky in build, inclined to be overly thin. He'd dressed himself in a rather stylish outfit of well-tailored ordinary clothing and a handsome enchanted cape. Though the staff he carried in one hand was powerful and reeked of ancient magic, he had a second, more basic one on his back.

     "I came to join the Circle," he told the gate-guards. "I want to teach, and live in the company of nice tame mages who aren't full of hate and death. Oh. And here." He handed over the lesser staff. "Give that back to the Knight Captain. Tell him he was right; that other staff really was shit."

     The war did not end for some time.

     But it _did_ end, and the world _did_ get better. Cullen would be proud to the end of his days for his own part in that.

**Author's Note:**

> And with that, I officially declare an end to the Templar Canticles.
> 
> It's time. With (as of this writing) DA: Inquisition about to come out next week, the whole continuity for these stories is going to be completely Jossed, and I'd rather end my own version of the Mage-Templar War on my own terms. I did try to imply a happy ending for the boys, here: Carver growing gleefully older and Cullen doing so less gleefully, but more contentedly as he sees the good works being wrought in his name. In this headcanon, after the war ends, someone will have the brilliant idea to make Cullen Knight Vigilant (or whatever the highest rank of the Templars is), and he'll spend the rest of his life trying to reform the Andrastean faith into something that's not so imperialist and horrific. That will take centuries, I'm sure, but he'll give 'em a good solid head start. And with Carver ever by his side, he'll live to see the beginning of much better times.
> 
> So thanks, to those of you who've followed the Canticles this far. See you in the (game canon) Inquisition!


End file.
